All's Fair
by moosemaster
Summary: Commencing Project 'Out Hawkeye'... is he or isn't he? B.J. and Charles are determined to find out. [slash AND het]
1. In which the bet is made

HEY! Whaddayaknow! I wrote it! And it's not depressing! (yet?)

Anyhoo, this one I've actually got all planned out in my head, it's going to be completed, it will take time, but dammit, I WILL PREVAIL OVER MY DEMONS OF LAZINESS (and schoolwork)!!!!!!!! It is humorous. It will remain so, I hope, though not without it's moments of tension and angst... but nothing like "Closure", which was angst angst angst and heaviness from beginning to end.

In any case, not mine, and PLEASE, READ AND REVIEW! Or if not a review, a 'howdy doody, I read your story, ta and a Merry Christmas to ya' would still be nice. I wish they had counters on these pages... I just like to know what's being read / what's being steadfastly ignored / what have you.

P.S. The title is from, if you haven't guessed, the saying 'all's fair in love and war.'  
P.P.S. Happy holidays, and a happy New Year to come, let us hope!  
.  
.  
.  
.

All's Fair  
.  
.  
.

"He is."

"Naw..."

"'Naw', indeed. He most certainly is."

"He most certainly isn't."

"Hunnicutt, my word, what with me being a man of the world and immensely knowledgeable concerning the social intricacies and deviations of this miserable planet, is incontestable, and my word is that he most irrefutably IS."

"Breathe, Charles."

"I will not; not in this foul and festering chamber of horrors." He paused in his writing to flick a sock off his desk and resumed his letter.

B.J. reclined lazily on his bunk, pouring himself a drink and kicking his boots off. His hat tipping lazily down over his forehead, his words were intentionally passive and mild. "If only your bank of riches was as freely flowing as your bank of words."

Charles turned from his letter with a sly raising of his eyebrows. "Why, Hunnicutt, are you proposing what I do believe you are proposing?" He set his pen aside with a delicate 'click', like the last puzzle piece of B.J.'s thousand-piece set being laid down, the scenario assembled for B.J. himself to sit back and enjoy.

Setting his martini aside, B.J. leaned forwards. "Why, Charles, I do believe I am proposing what you think I'm proposing."

Charles clapped his hands together in self-assured, covetous glee, his blue eyes glinting in the dim light of the tent. He swung his whole body around to face B.J., who smiled and tilted his head. "Terms?"

"Yes, indeed, terms," Charles breathed, "there must be terms. I shall name mine, you shall name yours, you shall 'yay' mine, I shall 'nay' yours-"

"... lets call the whole things off," sang B.J..

"Yes, very amusing Hunnicutt, now: operation Prove that Benjamin Franklin Pierce is of Homosexual Inclination."

"Which he isn't," added B.J..

Charles snorted his dissent, crossing his arms, leaving B.J. to commence with the negotiations.

"Well, how about 'to prove that he likes girls, Hawkeye must become involved with one romantically.' ?"

"If that were the case, I would likely be in the state of losing our little amusement this very moment. Poor terms, Hunnicutt, very poor."

"First of all, he is on Post-Op duty right now, and secondly, I meant for at least a week."

"First of all, being on duty has never stopped that drooling, depraved sycophant in the known past, and as for your terms, two weeks."

"Deal." BJ held out his hand, which Charles declined with an incredulous toss of his head.

"Furthermore, to prove that his sexuality is indeed of a devious nature, I must witness him having relations with a member of the same gender."

"Why Charles, a peeping tom! I never would have guessed!" BJ exclaimed with gleeful disbelief.

"How absurd! Of course not. I am a doctor, and a scientist, and he is merely the lab rat in this childish, however lucrative, experiment."

"Of course."

BJ offered his hand, withdrawing the offending limb at Charles' flat stare in favor of drinking on it... alone.

"Hunnicutt, that is not all. Sub-clauses and loopholes, you see." 

B.J. rolled his eyes. Charles continued. 

"Seeing as you two fools, for reasons mercifully unbeknownst to myself, are joined at the hip, as it were, you cannot be trusted with this secret. From this, I can see two possible results, neither of which are in my most deserving favor. You will cheekily inform him of your stance in our wager, and he will hasten to bribe the nearest female to participate in a sham relationship with him for the duration of the allotted two weeks, leaving you to collect your winnings and divvy them between the two of you, drowning them away in a night of celebration at Rosie's Bar."

"Smart, Charles, I -"

"Failing that, him being homosexual, you will sweeten the pot with the winnings by advising him to put a hold on his devious sexual activities, leaving yours truly without an iota of evidence with which to support my case."

"Which is a pile of-"

"These discrepancies shall be prevented by the following rules: if there is a female involved, she mustn't be your common two-bit nurse who will lie on her back for a fifth of whiskey... someone with character, which I find is sorely lacking in this establishment."

"Shall I complain to room service?"

"Margaret. He will have to woo Margaret. Any man who manages that will not only be in possession of their heterosexuality, but my respect."

"And your envy."

"Shut your lingual orifice, Hunnicutt, or I shall shut it for you. Furthermore, in all fair play, resisting the temptation of passive, heterosexual men who want nothing to do with his sorry hide will be no great feat of heterosexuality..."

"He has to be the one to give in to temptation and initiate... it?"

"Precisely."

"But who will try to seduce him? What guy around here is attractive enough to catch his eye, and can be trusted not to tell him about our secret bet?"

Charles gave a patronizing sigh. With a fatherly chuckle, he moved to sit beside B.J. and pat the man on the back.

"Why, you, of course."

B.J. sprang to his feet. "ME! But I'm married, I'm his best friend in this dump, and I'm not to the best of my knowledge, homosexual."

"None of which are to be a problem, as you have assured me that he prefers the oB.J.ects of his infection to be of the female variety. Therefore, he should not desire you, nor should he become enamored with your attentions," retorted Charles.

"But Charl-"

"Quiet!"

A voice could be heard echoing across the compound in the direction of the Swamp.

"It's a long waaay.... to old Jack Daniels... it's a long way... to go. It's a long waaay to gin and toooniiiic, the sweetest drink I knoooow-"

.

.

"It's a long waaay.... to old Jack Daniels... it's a long way... to go. It's a long waaay to gin and toooniiiic, the sweetest drink I knoooow-"

The void before the crack of dawn, eight hours spend on his feel elbow deep in someone else's problems that, truth be told, neither of them should have to deal with, and Hawkeye Pierce was marching, singing, on his way back to his tent for a pick-me-up to settle down.

He burst through the door in a jumble of wheeling arms and legs, plummeting face first to meet his cot halfway. He turned over to pour himself a drink. 

"It's four-o-eternity in the morning, the sun is still on RR, the birds are all choking on shrapnel, and my tush hasn't felt the caress of a cot since the last coming of Christ... what an excellent day to have a rotten day!" It took him more than a moment to notice B.J. and Charles huddled, heads together, on the edge of B.J.'s bunk.

"What are you two lovebirds lovingly dreaming up in your lovely little heads this time of morning -or is it night- this week-before-Christmas-eve? If it's sugarplums and fairies, you can count me in." And, his drink splattering to the floor, he collapsed once again into his cot.

Charles waltzed back to his desk to complete his letter, muttering.

"Sugarplums and fairies... you've lost already, Hunnicutt... you've lost already."  
..  
..  
..  
..  
..  
..  
..  
..  
..  
..  
TO BE CONTINUED (I promise)... 


	2. In which the Father has an audience

**Disclaimer, notes, etc:** I'll keep this short and sweet. Not mine, please please review, sorry for the shortness and lack of essentially everything (plot, mostly) but I've got a lot on my plate education-wise... the next one should be longer, hopefully. Oh, and I was OVERWHELMED by the glorious amount of reviews for the first chapter! Thanks guys! Ta! Moose

Chapter two: In Which the Father Boxes and Hawkeye Watches

B.J. was jerked from his blissful unconsciousness by the raucous bleating of a jeep, which he mentally damned to hell before accepting his miserable army-issue fate and swinging his legs out of the cot.

"Hey, Hawk," he said, to no reply.

"Hawk?" 

He cracked open one sleep-encrusted, hangover-weighted eyelid only to see the cot next to him stark naked, devoid of its usual inhabitant. Pardoning himself for staring, then slapping himself for talking to a cot, he poured himself into a pair of pants and stumbled out of the Swamp.

Wincing against the sunlight, he spied Hawkeye across the compound sitting on a stack of wooden supply crates talking to himself. Taking things as they came, B.J. ambled over to the base of the mound, realizing as he grew closer that Hawkeye was in fact talking to Father Mulcahey, who beating the stuffing out of his punching bag, and not to himself. This was rather disappointing, for mild insanity usually promised an eventful day, especially if it was Hawkeye's mild insanity. Nevertheless he drew himself together and hollered a skyward greeting.

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Hawkeye squinted. "Hey! Beej! Come up here!"

At a loss for an alternative means of passing the time, B.J. complied, his lanky frame giving him more difficulty than he'd anticipated in reaching the top of the crate-stack.

"Fabulous view, isn't it," Hawkeye proclaimed, throwing an arm around him in what B.J. assumed to be a gesture of their incredibly close and chummy colleague, comrade, and buddy status.

B.J. looked around at the fabulous view. A pile of sun-scorched tires emitting enough fumes to sedate a horse, some brown hills, all the potentially lush life around them dried and yellowed by the heat, a rock, some dirt, some dust, and a prostitute.

B.J. thought the view was garbage, and said as much.

Hawkeye's attention was elsewhere. The Father's mitts thumped relentlessly against the bag, which issued forth a defeated puff of dust with every blow. He pulled back for another punch, back muscles shifting like iron cords under velvet skin. Hawkeye was riveted.

"He does throw a pretty good punch, doesn't he?" said B.J.

Hawkeye started. "Oh, I wouldn't know... I'm no boxing fan."

B.J.'s nostril's flared and he thought unsavory suspicious thoughts.

"Then why were you watching him?"

Hawkeye's eyes were back on Father Mulcahey. "Why shouldn't I have been," he mumbled distractedly, picking his nose, "he throws a pretty good punch, after all."

Very suspicious thoughts indeed.

He needed a plan.

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

To be continued...


	3. In which Margaret has a queer experience

**Disclaimer & Notes:** So, I haven't written a single thing in... a year? More? So, I whipped this out in a little over two hours, and I feel rusty as all hell. Please read and review, especially with constructive criticism as I desperately need to... un-rust? The Bright Side: I do have a plot sketched out. Huzzah! Direction! B.J. being cheesy and smutty, all at the same time!!!

P.S. NOT MY SHOW, NOT MY CHARACTERS.

Chapter Two: In Which Margaret Experiences Something Rather Queer

"Come on, Margaret, for old time's sake?"

"Oh go blow, Pierce, I'm tired, famished, and as always, totally disinterested."

"Says you... to the tall dark and handsome stranger armed with the knowledge that you probably haven't had a _properly_ satisfying man's man this-man's-army divide-and-conquer twelve-gun-salute bomb-dropping earth-shattering caisson-rolling male encounter since your gloriously mustachioed Aunt Lois kissed you farewell at the airport-"

Houlihan rolled her eyes.

"- and I have eleven magic fingers."

"Where's the eleve- oh, you're disgusting. There are ladies present!"

"'And this lady doth prote-'"

"Finish that sentence and I'll have your guts for garters."

"'-methinks.' Maaar-gret," he whined, "don't be such a party pooper. Alright, let's close here. How about _yielding_ to temptation, for once? Who knows if it'll pass your way again!"

"I'd me most grateful if it didn't!" she ground out. "And will you shut up?" All heads snapped towards Charles, who had started whistling 'As Time Goes By'.

"Oh, _do_ play it again, Sam," breathed Hawkeye, fluttering his eyelashes.

"Why don't _you_ just put your lips together and blow, motor-mouth?"

"Nobody save _nobody_ is going to be blowing anything until these boys are safe and sound in post-op, is that clear?"

"Of course Colonel. So blows the horn of age and wisdom."

"That's the horn of rank, Pierce, and you'd better mind it if you know what's what." Potter sighed and turned to leave. "That's it, I'm pooped. Night, boys."

The door swung behind him.

"Well, I for one have never minded any sort of horn: rank, pooped, or otherwise."

B.J. choked.

"Ahem," Charles coughed pointedly. "ye-as, well, my work is done here. Esteemed colleagues," he drawled, shucking off his gloves and dropping them blithely over his shoulder. He glided smugly out of the operating room.

"Dammit," B.J. muttered, boggling at the possibility of a walk itself being smug. "Yeah, I'm done here too, Hawk."

"See you in the Swamp, Beej?" Two orderlies carried the closed patient from the table.

"Not if you get lucky with the Queen Muskrat," he replied halfheartedly.

"Nah, no worries; 'A bachelor enjoys the chase but never eats the game,'" he declared, met by an inarticulate cry from Margaret as she stormed from the operating room.

Hawkeye smirked. "Especially when it's gone off."

------*_*_*_*------

Crickets pierced the sweltering darkness.

She paused to lean her head towards the knock.

"If that's you, Pierce, you can go suck an egg."

"Tweedledee's gone back to the Swamp, Major. It's just your friendly neighborhood sidekick."

Margaret resumed ferociously raking the brush through her hair.

"If you've come to serve up a second serving of irritation, beat it. I'm full."

"How about an apologetic aperatif?" The candlelight caught B.J.'s eyes peeking through the cracked door.

She huffed.

"That would have been before the main course."

"Discomfited digestif? Conciliatory cocktail?"

Lips pursed, Margaret swiveled in her seat.

"What is it, Hunnicutt? And stop hovering outside like a nervous nelly, people will talk!"

He took his minor triumph with shoulders slumped. Closing the door gently behind him, he perched on the edge of the bed cover. Pulling a pink throw pillow onto his lap, he wrung his hands in the ruffles. His toe tapped. Margaret twitched her eyebrows with impatience.

"Margaret, I just wanted to apologize for my insensitive lackey's lack of... sensitivity."

Margaret gaped, then took a moment to reprocess his words, then gaped further.

"Is that all? Will you force me to listen to this again tomorrow when he, I don't know, compares my complexion to the two-day-old porridge, my eyes to the runny eggs? When I complain about the cold and he offers to warm my sleeping bag, or I complain about the heat and he leers and calls it 'glandular fever'? Or menopause? What do you really want Hunnicutt?"

"Woah, woah there, I just wanted to..." B.J. paused and reconsidered. "Be that as it may, have you ever... stopped... to wonder... to contemplate his motives?" he offered weakly, and winced.

"Motives? Besides amusing himself? Pandering to his inner child? Hunnicutt, get out." Her hairbrush was a blur in her hand as she turned back toward her makeshift vanity.

"An inner child who is... scared."

Margaret paused, and B.J. seized the opportunity to plough onwards.

"Frightened, lashing out in terror at the things he is afraid to lose... the people he... cares about. Those he loves." He stood and began to pace. "Afraid to have the beautiful things in his life taken from him, breaking his favorite toys-" here Margaret made a noise of protest, "- before his parents take them away. Margaret, it's been so long since he's loved!"

Margaret had put her hands to her lips.

"Oh B.J., the poor boy."

B.J. stood still. "... really?"

"He's a lout because he... thinks I'm pretty?"

B.J. shrugged. He wasn't sure that this was precisely the point he was trying to get across, but wasn't one to upset such tenuous leverage.

"Ye-es... Yes. Exactly! Margaret, he's such a kind soul, generous and fearful, charming and handsome, in his own way..."

Margaret hummed, eyebrows beetled in thought. B.J. moved to stand behind her, tasting victory.

"When you let him in, let him get close, his every frown casts a shadow on your day," hands on her shoulders, "but his every smile," pause for effect, "embraces you in a ray of the warmest sunlight."

The arm holding the hairbrush dropped to her lap. B.J. could feel the tension draining from her body. The candle on her dresser burned hotly in the suddenly still room.

"His eyes, you can drown in them, get lost in their beautiful pain, sink to the foundation," he bent to whisper in her ear, "of his soul, be consumed by his smouldering passions as his sensual fingers dance a trail of fire across your... body."

B.J. straightened himself suddenly, acutely aware of his own sweat as the gauzy fabric of Margaret's nightdress clung to his fingers. Her chest heaved, her breathing deep, her lips parted...

Margaret's eyes startled open with the racket of the door clattering in B.J.'s wake.

Breathless, she patted her hair and smoothed out her robe, righted the cushion on her bed and blew out her candle.

Her hair was matting slightly; there were ten sticky points on her robe.

Of all her war experiences...

The past minutes jolted through her consciousness.

... this was indeed the queerest.

She shot an incredulous look at the night outside her door. Perhaps B.J. was drunk? Margaret lay down, determined to dream of absolutely nothing, not of temptingly romantic drivel, of sensitive men, especially not of long fingers and dark wings of hair and sunshine smiles and the quickness of B.J.'s moist breath on her neck.

In the darkness, she heard the hiss and pop of an army shower spluttering to life.

.

.

.

To be continued...


End file.
